Hanging the Devil, page 30
Maybe he was arrogant enough to believe she was too shaken from their first encounter to give chase. Unlikely, but just the thought of being underestimated pissed her off.
She took the remaining stairs two at a time.
At the upper landing she stopped and crouched behind the balustrade, pausing long enough to control her breathing and peer around the stone wall. The second-floor corridor led to a large open door, which must be the entrance to the special exhibitions gallery. Inside the gallery she could see the bomber, only he wasn’t moving. Faint echoes made her think he was speaking to someone, but he stood as if frozen in place.
Maria moved cautiously around the balustrade and jogged quietly toward the gallery, staying close to the wall. She heard the smack of shoes on the stairs behind her and remembered the two Russians. Clearly, they were also undeterred by the gangster’s grenades.
It seemed everyone had unfinished business with Freddie Wang’s soldiers.
A voice inside Maria’s head demanded to know what the hell she was doing, rushing headlong into danger. She was deliberately putting herself between two opposing forces, Chinese gangsters ahead and Russian mobsters behind. If they both decided she was a bigger threat, Maria was the meat in a murder sandwich.
There were two women named Maria, it seemed. The Maria who came to San Francisco less than a week ago was bold, even impulsive, but never reckless. She would spend days behind her desk, filling in all the necessary paperwork to get warrants, tactical support, and, if necessary, a strike team.
Maria decided that version of herself had a much better chance of staying alive, but she wasn’t really living. Process and procedures took spontaneity off the menu, and now that the second incarnation of Maria had a taste of adventure, she was hungry for more.
She glanced over her shoulder, but no one crested the stairs. Maria figured at least half a minute before the Russians joined the party. She moved at an angle toward the gallery door.
She was twenty feet away when she got a sickening sense of déjà vu.
The bomber pivoted on his heel and swung his arm sideways. Maria saw the disk fly from his hand, the red light blinking, and wondered who was the target. Deep in her gut, she already knew the answer. Maria sprinted toward the door.
She counted down the seconds, but Maria feared Cape had finally run out of time.
69
Cape knew he had run out of time but prayed he hadn’t run out of luck.
There was nowhere to hide in the open space of the gallery. Even without broken ribs, he could never outrun a skating hockey puck. All he could do was play goalie.
The trick was staying between Grace and the blast.
Cape looked for a pedestal or statue big enough to work as a shield, but even the rhinoceros sculpture was tiny. When the disk was halfway across the room, he decided the only defense was a good offense. Cape shoved Grace behind the table displaying the teapots. Then he ran directly at the bomb.
The flashing red light on the disk beckoned like a siren with a switchblade. Cape met it halfway to the door.
Feng was thirty feet away. There was no way to bend and grab the disk while running, so Cape did the only thing he could manage. He planted his left foot and kicked with his right.
The inside of Cape’s shoe hit the hockey puck like a slapshot and sent it airborne.
Feng froze in disbelief. Cape tore his eyes away from the flying bomb and ran. He stumbled, caught his knee against the low table, and crashed across the top, turning teapots into ceramic shards.
Cape fell onto the floor next to Grace and rolled to cover her head with his arms. He was tall enough for his feet and the top of his head to extend beyond the edges of the table, so he caught a glimpse of Feng as the hockey puck reached its goal.
The disk struck Feng in the solar plexus.
He caught the puck with both arms, trapping it against his stomach at the precise moment the red light stopped blinking. Cape locked eyes with Feng as time ran out.
The blast punched a hole in Feng the size of a dinner plate.
The compression against his torso and shape of the charge channeled the blast into a perfect circle. Feng’s insides went outside by way of his back, exiting the gallery through the main entrance.
For a macabre moment Feng just stood there. Then he fell on his back in a crumbled heap of charcoaled chagrin.
“Yuck.”
Cape glanced down to see Grace peering around the corner of the table. He extended his arm to block her view with his open palm.
“Don’t look.”
“Too late.” Grace pushed his hand away and scrambled to her feet. “Besides, I’m almost twelve.” Cape groaned and rolled onto his stomach. It took a second to get his knees under him.
They both looked toward the spot where Sally and the ghost had been moments ago. Neither was visible, but sounds of a struggle echoed behind the row of statues at the back of the gallery. Cape’s skull was buzzing from the concussive force of the blast, but he could still hear, and he didn’t like the sounds of ragged breathing and feet slapping against the marble floor. He had never known Sally to struggle against an opponent.
The thought was a cold hand wrapped around his spine, trying to hold him back. Cape knocked it aside and started to move. Maria ran into the gallery, and Cape felt the same hand wrap around his heart.
Maria was covered in blood.
Their eyes met and Cape realized her expression was worried, not pained. The blood wasn’t hers. Maria smiled in relief as she saw Grace.
“What happened to you?” asked Cape.
“I got hit by a spleen,” said Maria. “Nice kick, by the way. You should play football.”
“You mean soccer.”
“I refuse to call it that.” Maria looked over her shoulder at the hallway. “We’re about to have company…Valenko’s men.”
Cape’s eyes darted to the back of the gallery, where shadows fought behind a row of stone gods. “Can you cover the door?”
Maria nodded.
Cape drew his gun and started to move. Grace stayed by his side. He paused mid-stride, intending to send her back to Maria, until he remembered that heavily armed Russians were on their way.
The truth was that Grace wasn’t safe anywhere. Not with Maria, not hiding in the loft, and not running next to Cape.
She would never be safe until they ended this.
70
Sally wondered how this was going to end.
She spent her childhood training in the martial arts, from the age of five until the moment she left the Triads. Her parents were taken along with her innocence, but she never felt alone. Death was her constant companion.
Death stayed close during her years of treacherous training, and Death opened her eyes to the betrayal that had brought her to the Triads. Even after she left, Sally knew her ally never left her side.
Now wounded and bleeding, Sally realized Death had many friends, and she couldn’t help but wonder if the grim reaper played favorites. This battle felt like a stalemate until Sally lost ground to the ghost and a lot of blood along the way. It only made sense that she wasn’t the favorite anymore. Sally had changed, but Death was constant.
The ghost was as expertly trained as Sally, and though she hated to admit it, he was stronger. He had the advantage of height, weight, and reach, and unlike most men, he didn’t lean on them for confidence. He used them for leverage.
He pulled Sally off balance several times during their tug-of-war, and being off-kilter was fatal in martial arts. Only by lunging and retreating, spinning her sword, and slackening her grip, was Sally able to regain her footing and keep her distance.
The long ribbon with its deadly blade had finally been cut. It lay on the floor between them like a severed tentacle. The instant it fell, the ghost reached behind his back with his left hand and snapped his arm sideways, hurling three razor-sharp flying stars at Sally’s head. She twisted sideways as two sailed past, but the third shuriken bit deep into her arm.
The ghost wounded the same arm previously with his flying blade, but now Sally felt the burn subside and wondered if he dipped his shuriken in narcotics. The ghost wouldn’t hesitate to tip the scales by handicapping an opponent. Sally stepped sideways, careful to avoid a congealing puddle of her own blood, and tried to use her injured arm while she still could.
She kept a ten-foot radius between her and the ghost. The embers of his eyes glowed with amusement, as if this was the most fun he’d had in a long time. He mirrored her movements and kept his eyes on hers. As Sally circled, he bent his left arm as if preparing another throw, though his skeletal hand was empty.
Sally dropped into a crouch, her left hand brushing her waist before sweeping outward in a broad arc. Her fingers were tingling and would be numb soon, but she still had enough dexterity to return the kindness shown to her. Three metal darts flew from her hand like silver dragonflies.
One sailed past the ghost on his right. The second cut a thin gash across his left cheek, and as he spun on his heel, the third caught him in the left shoulder at the joint. He staggered backward and grimaced, a Bela Lugosi smile of agony and admiration.
“I understand why you left the society.” The ghost moved counterclockwise in their tight circle, his ruby eyes full of mirth and malice. “But what I don’t understand is why we’re on opposite sides.”
“You’re wondering why I should care about a few stolen paintings.” Sally shifted her stance to compensate for the heaviness of her left arm. “I didn’t, not until you tried to kill a friend of mine.”
“I’ve heard the stories.” The ghost rotated his left shoulder, where a red orchid was seeping through the white of his jacket. “What you did for the Triads.”
Sally bowed her head. “Your resumé isn’t too shabby.”
“Then tell me, Little Dragon,” said the ghost. “Do you really believe saving a little girl will wash the blood off your hands?”
“I don’t mind blood on my hands,” said Sally, “as long as I’m the one who puts it there.”
Sally spun the naginata like a baton until it was a whirlwind. She didn’t want the ghost to know from which position she would attack.
The ghost attacked first. He seemed to withdraw from the spinning sword until he rolled forward on the balls of his feet. His left arm moved so quickly it was a blur. A second flying blade emerged, attached to a red ribbon flowing from his sleeve like a river of blood.
Maybe he is a ghost.
Sally had never seen anyone move that fast, especially someone with a wounded shoulder. She almost fell backward, barely catching herself with the hilt of her long sword. She began to regain her balance but heard the whistling of the blade on its return and collapsed onto one knee as it whooshed over her head. Severed strands of her black hair fell to the floor.
The ghost swung his left arm faster and faster, turning the blade into a scythe, seemingly oblivious to the crimson on his robe. He swung the weapon just fast enough to keep the blade aloft as he guided it lower and tighter.
The scratch on his cheek beaded red as his parchment skin tightened in concentration.
Anything that bleeds can be killed, even a ghost.
Sally had to strike before she got shredded, but the ghost held the high ground. She braced her right foot and shifted her weight from her left knee, looking for an opening, but it was like staring into a spinning fan. She could feel the breeze from the blade as it got nearer her head.
That was the moment Sally heard the squeak of sneakers running on marble.
She recognized the diminutive footsteps and wanted to turn, but Sally kept her eyes on the specter in front of her. She adjusted the grip on her sword and tensed the muscles in her legs.
As she prepared to jump, Sally wondered if she was about to die with Grace.
71
Grace almost died when she saw Sally bleeding.
The red streaks across Sally’s clothes felt like cuts across Grace’s heart. She started to move, but Cape put a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“You’ll get her killed.”
He and Grace had rushed past the row of statues before realizing how expansive this part of the gallery was relative to the area where they had left Maria. They slid to a stop twenty feet from the fight, with Sally between them and the ghost. The wrong position at a critical time. The long row of scowling gods and leering demons looked down on them, stone sentinels bearing witness to their failure.
Cape raised his gun and cursed under his breath.
Grace was terrified what would happen if Sally moved when Cape pulled the trigger. The spinning ribbon and oscillations of the ghost made it impossible for Cape to get a clear shot, even though Sally was on her knees. Grace felt her mouth go dry and palms start to sweat. She rubbed her hands up and down her thighs and tried to breathe.
Grace cried out as the heel of her right hand caught against a sharp edge.
She frowned and slid her hand gingerly into her pocket. Between hanging upside down and watching a man explode, she had forgotten about the plastic button. She tugged it frantically from her pocket with her right hand while smacking Cape repeatedly with her left.
Without lowering his gun, Cape spared a glance and realized what she was holding.
“Push it.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice.
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Twice Grace pressed the button with both thumbs, as hard as she could.
Nothing happened.
Sally found an opening and shifted her weight. The ghost saw her tense and retreated a step. Cape lined up a shot and gripped the revolver with both hands, one eye closed.
Sally vaulted into the air. The ghost crouched and raised his arm to swing his blade on an intercept course with Sally’s neck.
Grace shook the plastic box and pressed the button a third time.
The button glowed red and Grace felt a buzzing in her palms. The ghost glowed with electric light that danced up his sleeves and down his torso, tracing the wiring in his jacket.
Rivers of neon flowed from shoulders to hips, and the ghost spasmed involuntarily, his face contorted with rage. His shoulders became rigid, his arms flew backward, and the spinning blade missed its mark.
Sally soared and swung her sword in a savage arc.
The long, curved blade of the naginata caught the ghost at the base of the wrist. His left hand spun through the air as if waving goodbye.
Without the ghost’s gaunt fingers clutching the ribbon, the blade flew across the room and landed in a heap at the feet of an uncaring god. Sally landed in a crouch behind the ghost and pivoted for another swing.
The ghost spun on his heel, a geyser of blood marking the circumference of his turn. Before Sally could finish her swing, a roundhouse kick from the ghost’s right leg struck her shoulder, knocking her off balance.
The ghost scurried behind the nearest statue, which was an aristocratic female figure holding a fan in one hand and sword in the other. Cape took a shot and the goddess lost her nose.
The ghost disappeared. Sally ran after him, with Cape and Grace in close pursuit.
The ghost darted between exhibits with a speed that belied any injury, dodging pedestals and leaping over tables as if they were hurdles. The electric aura dissipated, but his white robes were charred where wires had singed the fabric. He sprinted toward the gallery exit without looking back. He clearly intended to fight another day.
Sally closed the gap to less than ten feet. Cape and Grace were twenty feet behind. The ghost crossed the threshold and headed for the main stairway.
That’s when he saw Maria, flanked by two Russians.
They stood left of the gallery entrance, immediately visible in the broad hallway, with its bright marble walls and well-lit vaulted ceiling. The ghost seemed to glide across the stone floor as he accelerated toward the main staircase.
Maria didn’t even try to raise her pistol. By the time she could line up a shot, he’d be gone. She turned instead to her two companions, waiting for her cue.
Maria nodded, and Pasha smacked his brother fiercely on the arm.
“Ely, blast that bastard.”
Ely held the rifle against his waist like a cowboy in an old Western. He pivoted slowly to track the movement of the ghost and, after a quick glance at the buttons on the grip, pulled the trigger. A primordial bolt of plasma erupted from the barrel.
The streak of lightning scorched the air to ozone.
It was impossible to look directly at the energy beam and just as hard to aim. Ely yanked the jagged beam across the marble as if dragging an electric snake by its tail.
Sally skidded to a halt. Cape and Grace did the same. There was no way to get closer without being boiled. The ghost ran, and Ely rotated his hips to sharpen his aim.
If Ely released the trigger, the gun would have to recharge, and already the beam was sputtering and shifting from white to blue to orange.
The ghost reached the balustrade at the top of the stairs. Without slowing down, he placed his right hand on the top of the stone banister and vaulted sideways.
At the apex of his jump, lightning finally struck.
The ghost seemed to freeze in midair as light enveloped him in a perfect sphere. His right arm was braced against the marble in mid-vault, his legs horizontal in anticipation of the jump, flexed and ready to land on the stairs below. His left arm was extended away from his body to counterbalance his momentum, the absence of a left hand a minor affront to symmetry. The ghost was an incandescent silhouette inside a bubble about to burst.
Everyone in the hallway held their breath. The buttons on Ely’s gun switched from green to red. The chandelier overhead seemed to flicker and fade.
The ghost went supernova.
The explosion was soundless, as if it occurred in space. The orb with the ghost at its epicenter expanded until it encompassed everyone in the hall. Then the brilliant bubble exploded into a billion photons too fragile and weak to do anything but fade into memory.
